The Bottineau pioneer. (Bottineau, N.D.) 1885-1895, 1887-02-03
thoughts. far from the scene before
him, Lord Chetwode at a distance sees

II say, Rawson," he says, II won
that. Did you see? Another slice like
that would set me straight. Shall l
risk it again for q heavier sum-, and
cry double OF quits?"
Lord Chetwode walks quickly to the
table, lays his hand on Blake's shout
der, and says, "Pardon me If Iwishto
be quits with you first. We will go
outside, that we may be quite alone"
Blake rises steadying himself as he
does so, and, haggard from shame and
renorse, follows Lord Chetwode from
the room to the gardens outside.
For O. wonder, they are deserted.
No sound breaks the stiffness OF the
night. Far up above. the moon is
shedding a tender radiance over the
sinful earth beneath.
"Villain, where is my sister," Lord
Chetwode says to him passionately.
"Idecline to tell YOU"
II warn you not to tempt me too
far!"
"Sir, the Dlakes were never towards
to be frightened by a threat"
"Then l am to understand that you
refuse to allow me to rescue my sister
from the abyss OF SIN into which you
have so remorselessly plunged herr"
"Not so fast, my friend; your sister
is quite content"
But before he has time to complete
his sentence, Lord Chetwode grasps
his revolver, and taking aim, fires de-
liberately at him. The bullet passes
through his heart, and Blake, finging
his arms wildly into the air, falls heav-
lily to the ground.
Not a word escapes him, and when
he IS discovered later on, life is quite
extinct.
4 y Il Il
Lord Chetwode makes his way as
one in a dream to his hotel. Going
upstairs, he hurries along tho corri-
dor, seeking his own room. The door
next to his happens to be open, and
in his agitation installing it for his
own, he walks in, not discovering his
mistake till the figure of q woman
seated at q distant table recalls him
to himself.
The woman, rising gently, turns to-
W ord him
As she does so, g. faint cry escapes
her, and she clutches eagerly at the
chair near her, us though desire of
support. Chetwode. goingup seizes her
by the arm. 1t is his sister-Lady
Mary Chetwode!
"John," she cries. piteously stretch.
ing out her hands, "Why are you
here?"
And taking a srepforward, she sinks
fainting to the ground.
Lifting her gently, Chetwode places
her on the sofa; and as he gazes on
her beautiful face, now marked with
sorrow and suffering, all his love for
her returns, and pressing his lips to
her forehead, he murmurs, brokenly,
tenderly, my poor, poor girl"
Presently she RECEIVERS conscious
ness; and, shrinking from him, buries
her face once more in the pillows of
the sofa.
Quietly gaming possession OF her
hands, he says, tenderly, dearest
Mary, look up. My heart is full of
love for you! Let us forget the past"
ut is impossible!" she says bitterly.
Then anxiously and eagerly, she cries:
"You have met? Where is he? Oh,
what do l see in your face? 1t cannot
be that you have killed him?"
ut is even SOL" Chetwode replies.
"Oh, miserable wretch that I ami"
she cries, wildly. "First 1 ruin N.Y.
self, and now you, through me, have
become an a%ssassln!"
MARY" Chetwode says firmly,
"calm yourself. Can'tyou realize that
while he lived there could be no hope
for your l had looked forward to the
Staying of HIM since the day he stole
you from me. 1t is but right that he
should answer for his sin in that 9th.
er world, as he could not atone for it
in this"
"You have broken my hearth" she
says, sobbing bitterly. .
"Only to save your soul, Mary.
Think no more OF one so utterly base,
degraded. and unworthy"
Days and weeks pass, during which
time Lady Mary's life lies in the bal
ance. Fever ensuing from her over
wrought brain, brings her to deaths
door; but with tender care and care
full nursing she rallies, and then, when
the doctors permit (Lord Chetwode
making the necessary arrangements),
they start for Biarritz, where Lady
Mary wishes to seclude herself for
some time. She looks even more
lovely in her misery.
She assumes a false name, and for
several years keeps entirely from the
world, leading q very solitary life.
But con a lovely woman hide for
ever? No; and a pity indeed could it
be so.
DEAREST JoHN:-I hope you do not at
tribute my long silence to forgetfulness-in
that you would be very wrong. I had
nothing to tell you, my life bein. very
much the same from day to day. Beyond
the poor in this parish and attend |
ing church l do literally rothing. But even
in this. John dear, l have been singularly |
Hugh Maberly Jour rector
has chosen to fall in love with your poor |
Mary, and only yesterday asked me to be |
his wife. How could I dare link my wretch.
life with his pure and perfect one and be
happy? And yet II I lose him I lose all
would make existence endura BILE! Give
me your advice. He loves me with all his
Am I to break it,"
my DEAR MARY:-I have just read your
welcome letter, with mingled feelings OF sur.
prise and pleasure. II this man loves you